Night Angels(15)

“The Viennese girl?” He looked at his watch, picked up his leather briefcase from the shelf, and reached for his bowler hat from the coatrack near the door.

“Just a phone call to make sure she’s safe. Where are you going?” I took his hat from his hand and put it on my head, and then I pulled the hat down to cover my face. Playing with his things, putting on his tie or his pajamas—my spontaneity and girlish impulsiveness, as he said—had amused him when we were in Chicago, and he would laugh, but not in Istanbul or here in Vienna.

“I have an event.” The corners of his lips tilted upward, fortunately—no frowns or fuss.

I gave the hat back to him. “I thought your meeting with Mr. Wiley was tomorrow.”

“I’m going to an event in a German club.”

“Right. Well, you must go.”

He put his hat on, hesitating. “Do you really need to call the Viennese girl?”

“She was beaten, my love. And alone at night. Aren’t you worried as well?”

“Fine. Just a phone call. I need to go.”

“What time is your event?”

“In an hour.”

“So you have plenty of time. When will you have time for me? I got up and you were gone. Won’t you stay in bed with me in the mornings?”

“Grace.”

I whispered in his ear, “Well, do whatever you need to do; I’m not going anywhere. You know where to find me.”



I called Lola the moment after Fengshan left. Her voice, when it came through, was as fine as the music the orchestra ensemble played in the ballrooms, and yes, she had arrived home safely. “And would you like to have some coffee?” she asked.

No one had invited me for coffee, or tea. Not in Chicago, or China, or Istanbul.

“Oh yes,” I said.

She suggested that we meet at Café Caché near the Stadtpark, as though understanding perfectly well my limits—Café Caché was the only coffeehouse I knew. See you tomorrow, Grace.

I put down the receiver, smiling. I had not forgotten Fengshan’s disapproval, his warning of the danger in the city, and the humiliation of my arrest. But we would meet in a coffeehouse; it would be safe.





CHAPTER 7


FENGSHAN


The crowd at the club was smaller than he expected—a pitiful group of five, two women with gray hair and three elderly Viennese men in brown coats and fur muffs that appeared incompatible with the warm weather, a sorry sight compared to the rapt audience of two hundred at the National Assembly Hall, where he had lectured last year. There were no familiar faces of bespectacled university professors, or well-dressed businessmen keen to learn the ancient Chinese Four Great Inventions, or his friend Mr. Rosenburg. This almost never happened.

For a good forty minutes, in his fluent German, Fengshan excoriated the Japanese for their invasion of China and for violating the laws of the League of Nations. He also revealed the Japanese ambition of conquering the world that he’d found in a secret memo from Tanaka Giichi to Emperor Hirohito, their savage destruction of his homeland, and the devastating losses of human lives. China would defend herself, he vowed. But frustratingly, his lecture was met with silence and bewilderment. When he opened for questions, the few people in the audience asked irrelevant, ignorant questions: Did all women in China have bound feet? Did women in China wear pants like men? The latter was uttered with some disdain, since it was customary for Austrian women to don skirts.

Vienna today was not the Vienna of last year.

A man came to his lectern at the end of the lecture, clad in a black uniform and the cap with Totenkopf. Captain Heine appeared to be the doppelg?nger of the SS man, Eichmann, at first glance. Both were tall, sophisticated, exuding severity with their uniforms, though with one distinction: Eichmann’s eyes were cold gray, and Captain Heine’s were strikingly blue. It was likely paranoia, but the captain’s intense interest in him, after Grace’s arrest, could not be completely a whim.

“You’re a commendable orator, Herr Consul General. Your speech has, once again, enlightened us.” Captain Heine raised a glass of cognac in his hand—the captain always knew where to find cognac.

Fengshan had known the captain for about a year. He was a powerful man, well acquainted with the nobles, the magistrates, the department-store owners, the Rothschilds, as well as the international diplomats. He was also a regular patron of popular haunts in the city, German clubs, jazz bars, and cabarets. Rumor said the captain was a fastidious man, had his barber come every morning for a fine trim of his hair on the sides and back and a warm toweling around his neck. Although he was a married man, he made no effort to hide his attentions to young, attractive women, often claiming that it was fashionable for officers to have lovers.

Fengshan collected his materials and tucked them in his folder, willing the captain to leave him alone. It was not his intention to become entangled with a Gestapo officer, but for the sake of his country, in desperate need of a hefty loan and international assistance, he must remain friendly to marshal any potential allies. “I am pleased to see you, Captain Heine.”

“How’s Frau Consul General faring?” The captain didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.

Fengshan felt his throat tighten. It was not entirely out of the question that Captain Heine and Eichmann were well acquainted. “She’s well. I’m indebted to you, Captain Heine.”